All I wanted were your artistic interpretations of Veneta. Drawings of Ken Babbs telling everyone they were about to be sprayed with shitwater. Watercolors of Billy’s posture. A novelization of the Dark Star. Whatever: I just thought it was something we could do together.
If you’ll recall, I made one for you, seen here:
No matter: intent is nothing. I got no art.
THE TRUTH HAS WAITED LONG ENOUGH.
It’s been, like, two days.
That’s two generations to a fruit fly.
No one sent you crude drawings of a concert from 43 years ago, so you loosed a barrage of Rolling Stones-based shaky premises, links, and blatant homoeroticism at them?
What possible other option was there?
I didn’t think of it that way.
One does what one must.
Right. So: the nigh-on-infinite parade of virtually-identical concerts and bottomless well of pictures of coked-up limeys?
You know I love the Stones, right?
Yes, I do.
Two Thousand Light From Brome?
The Stones are about their albums.
They are, yeah.
There’s nothing deeper than Mick and Keith and Charlie playing the songs the way they’re supposed to go, but a little faster.
Just find the best show from ’72 and the best one from ’78 and listen to those. All the other shows are exactly the same, but not as good.
It turns out that this is the case, yes.
What about the art?
Oh, Swaggie Maggie sent me this:
The dog eating the baby’s food?
It’s good, isn’t it?
You knew what it was.
That is not the metric by which art is measured.
I don’t know, man: I like it when stuff looks like the stuff that it is.
You’re a moderd-day Robert Hughes.
I have no idea who that is. Anyway: Maggie solved the puzzle and said the magic words and clicked her ruby Tuesdays and that’s it: GARCIA AND THE PALO ALTO PLAYMAKERS, MOTHERFUCKER.
Whatcha got in the tape deck?
Can’t go wrong with ’73
Chileans would disagree with that statement.
Yeah. Yeah, y’know what: God Bless the Grateful Dead and God Damn Chile, May The Entire Country Get Ass-Measles.
Everything’s back to normal.